July 2008
VOL XVI, Issue 7, Number 183
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Mois Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Ryan Tansiel
Benefit Concert
CONTENTS
Ryan Tansiel
White Girl
Non-Smoker
Imagination Light
Depth of Field
Rose Grimaldi
Birth Poem of New York
S.F. Wright
Across the Bridge
navkirat sodhi
carousel
untitled
up till
untitled
untitled
move
untitled
it
Peycho Kanev
Hangman
love letter
one laugh and one woman and one red dog which is
not here at all
something
heart in barb wire
Michael E. Barrett
The Naked Ape
her words float
Like the Back of My Hand
POST SCRIPTUM
Ryan Tansiel
Congenital Heart Defect
Ryan Tansiel
Benefit Concert
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nurtured in the cradle gangster rap was born
Proximity to brutality can function as a pacifier
Until the teeth grow in
Could be the second set, could be the first
And every neighborhood bites off concrete sects
Gnawing on the bones of street signs and graffiti
To scrape off the violent plaque
It took years to build up
Now gangster rappers want to throw a benefit concert
For Africa!
Makes for good press I suppose
But these aren't gangster rappers
They're facsimile buffoons
Three degrees removed from authenticity
How many of them have seen a drive-by
A walk-by
or a standstill
Benefit concert
Oh,
And for Africa,
Right,
The benefit was in watching the most cannibalistic form of plagiarism
That which is cloaked, polished and reissued without sighting source
Why don't they sell the twenty-thousand dollar handcuff necklace
The record label designed and charged them twice for
And spend a nice relaxing weekend at a bed and breakfast in the slums of
Oakland
Listening to screams in the night
Could be a good music lesson
Determining whether the pitch of the scream was that of hunger,
loneliness, rage or acceptance
Maybe that joyful yelp that comes when you hit seven or eleven on the
first roll
I can only take so much hip-hop-crasy,
And grave raping of the originally destitute and economically quarantined
Because they're silent and cannot move
Throw your hands in the air
And waiver
With parasitic stare
Ryan Tansiel
White Girl
~~~~~~~~~~
I was Puerto Rican last week
For five minutes
Of course I could have cleared up the ambiguity
But her hair was so curly, so long and so black
We'll straighten it out on a date
Her number handed over on the inside flap of matches
Dad,
A black man from Baton Rouge
Loved a white girl
That loved him
Like,
Mom
That union is the reason
Why I'm brown enough
To be mistaken for Puerto Rican
Or
Italian, or Dominican, or Mexican
Pick an N
Of my parents passions
I'm dressed with fashions of desire
Changing color with the seasons
I've come to expect, people fail to connect
I'm mulatto
A gift that gives me golden hands in winter
Treated with summer varnish
My,
Colors of wood do splinter
Black and white blood in my veins
Try grabbing the reins
To a grey universe
As dark women go
Across lines passion ferries
In regard to lighter tones
There are no colors
To describe moans
White girls in chocolate swirls
It is a rocky-road
Where some won't park
Met my grandfather
For whom,
Even the whites of my eyes
Somehow seemed too dark
As a boy I saw the fiery tones
Handling freckles with friction may spark
Now, as a man
Love is paramount
My pale lover
In the sun will cover
Skin so fare
It lights the lair
That darkness likes to smother
And so, I could only laugh
When mom called
To ask,
"When are you going to find a nice black woman to marry
and settle down with a few kids?"
She always did love dark skin
Man, I love that
Crazy white girl
May 08
Non-Smoker
~~~~~~~~~~
Heating systems always stymied the cold-blooded
Respect for
Temperature maintenance
So flagrant
It seemed unreasonable
Amplifying the chasm
The lighter shaken
Would not light
May '08
Imagination Light
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Found and old fire extinguisher
and turned it into lamp
An imagination light
Putting out predictable embers
That simmer in my room
The first bulb was too bright so I burned it out alone
The follow was ignored so I smashed it for the light it had thrown
Unintended for basking
I'd rather let it explode
I unscrewed it from the top
At midnight, smashed it into the street
All the thoughts it didn't provoke
Shattered and fell into me
Walking on, the glass crackles
The right light has come to me
Now my imagination lamp cascades
Just enough cloud to rinse boredom's renegades
June '08
Depth of Field
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
f/22.0 open shutters let in breezes
f-sixteen-point-zero catch the kids being cute
f/11.0 friends of friends don't need framing, auto-focus wants an appeal
f-eight-point-zero, dropping the film in a lab, smiling developers pillage what f-stops
snatch and grab
f/5.6 the girlfriend needs pictures of flowers that will die
f-four-point-zero is poor from spending light, exiled to utility drawer,
sliding occasionally out of night
f/2.8 just go stand over there
f-two-point-zero the firing squad says smile, shot for beauty,
and buried in the depth of field
May '08
Rose Grimaldi
Birth Poem of New York
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whispers from the Womb
Before Birth
Enclosed in my warm silky cocoon suspended, protected I by the cord of life.
Not prevalent winds or blistering rains affect my body growing. Movement by
mother is recurrent, rolling back and forth,-up and down over and over again.
Whispers from my perceptive soul, nudging me of a blurred vision-dark, dirty
coats begging -many on the line crying for food outside, when the placenta
water swish-swashes against the precious sac inside that becomes silent again-
til the soul hears small, but loud recitations by children jumping rope in a
circular rhythm - singing, "strawberry shortcake short and sweet, tell me the
name of your sweetheart," for suddenly and sweetly, fruit-droplets of
nourishment touch my newly formed lips channeled from an entwining line.
Pushing against the inner wall of my mother's expanding stomach in out in out
with my flexing fetal limbs jolting mother's existence, but relieving my
constant fetal stationary still position- so tired that I feel a soothing
sensation with a caring hand circling me round, around and then once more.
God intercedes as always to bring yet another miracle into the world by
opening the birth canals at last, by allowing me my first sliding glide into
the room of lights, by releasing the doors to my nascent origin of New York.
Here I am with my eyes wincing, glared by the yellow sun greeting me- Welcome!
"Angel -Joyce Ellen -"
S.F. Wright
Across the Bridge
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gary was very sick during the end of his shift, his skin itching
uncomfortably and his body aching all over, and the minutes dragged as he sat
in the chair outside the garage smoking cigarettes, taking turns with Jose
whenever a car pulled in for gas. It had been a hot day but it was cooler now,
a little breezy, and Gary's skin was covered in dried sweat.
As he took drags from his cigarette and glanced at the clock inside the gas
station's office he kept going over the story he would tell his mother. His
delivery and tone of voice, his gestures and body language, all had to be
perfect because he hadn't had a hit since nine o'clock that morning and if
his mother didn't give him the money he didn't want to think about what he'd
have to do to get it.
At 5:59 he waited in front of the time clock and a second after the numbers
changed to 6:00 he punched out. He waved to Jose and got into his brown
Toyota truck, a gift from his mother seven years before for his thirtieth
birthday, and which despite the fact that it had almost one hundred twenty
thousand miles on it still ran well.
He lived a few blocks from the gas station and driving past the small
houses, the branches of the trees casting shadows onto the street, he kept
rehearsing his story, planning to go into it as soon as he entered the house.
He parked in the driveway behind his mother's gray Mercury, a car she used
no more than twice a week. Across the street the Sands and their two kids were
playing in the front lawn, and when the young boy saw Gary he waved and yelled,
"Hi!" One afternoon after Gary had shot up in his room and was feeling good
he'd gone outside to get the garbage can and had seen the Sands boy throwing
a football to himself and had gone over and played catch with him for twenty
minutes. Since then the boy greeted Gary exuberantly whenever he saw them.
He waved quickly to him, the boy and his sister and their parents smiling,
and then went into the house.
His mother, a small frail woman of seventy three with curly white hair,
was sitting at the kitchen table doing a crossword puzzle.
"Mom," Gary said. "I need to borrow sixty dollars. Remember I told you my
truck was making that funny noise? Well, it turns out there was trouble with
this wire, and Pete had to replace it for me. He's working late tonight, and
I told him I'd be right back with his money."
His mother didn't say anything, just kept looking at her crossword puzzle,
Gary's words hanging heavily in the air. Finally, still not looking at him,
she said, "I don't believe you."
A wave of panic washed over him. "What do you mean? I've been telling you
about that noise for a week. And Pete's waiting for me right now. I promised
him I'd come back with his money."
She closed her crossword puzzle book. "You're lying."
"No, I'm not. Just lend me the money and I'll be back in five minutes.
He's waiting for me."
"Why doesn't he just take the money out of your pay?"
Gary rolled his eyes. "Because I told him I'd pay him tonight. He's waiting
for me right now, expecting me to come."
"Call him and tell him to take the money out of your pay."
"Mom!" Gary yelled, gesturing. This was not going as he had planned. It was
a plausible story, he thought. He had been mentioning the noise in his truck
for the past few days, although no noise existed, anticipating a night like
this when he'd run out of money and would have to rely on his mother.
She sat at the table, stone faced, not looking at him.
"I have to pay him," he said, trying to convey with his voice genuine
reason and concern rather than the nauseous combination of panic and anger
that swam through him.
"You want me to lose my job? Because if I don't pay him that could happen."
Still she sat there silently, not looking at him.
"Fine," Gary said, the rage and panic enveloping him. "Then I'll fucking
lose my job." He stormed upstairs to his room, his mind already settled on
plan B, which he wished he didn't have to do, especially because it would mean
having to wait awhile and living a little longer with his dope sickness, but
under the circumstances he had no choice.. Plan B was relatively simple: he'd
wait until his mother took her bath, which she did around seven o'clock every
night, and then he'd quickly ransack her bedroom looking for money. If that
didn't work there was a plan C, but that involved stealing something from the
house, finding a place to sell it, and then taking the money to the Bronx.
That would take hours.
He lay on his bed, one hand behind his neck, scratching, his feet kicking
into each other nervously, his other hand squeezing the quilt. Once he heard
his mother approach his door and knock. "Did you want dinner?" she said.
"Not now," he said loudly. "I'll eat later."
He listened to her banging and walking around down there, all the time
keeping an eye on the clock next to his bed. At six thirty he got up and went
into the bathroom and urinated. He came back into his room, shut the door and
opened his window and lit a cigarette. He didn't even feel like a cigarette,
cigarettes tasting so much worse in withdrawal, the smoke ten times more
acrid, the sound of the tobacco crackling much more loud, even the feeling of
the filter leaving your lips scratchy and uncomfortable, but at the same time
he couldn't just lay there and had to kill these interminable minutes somehow.
When seven o'clock came and went he became more anxious, waiting for her
footsteps to come down the hall and then the sound of the bathroom door
shutting and the faucet turning on. What if she didn't take a bath until
later on? he thought. What if she didn't take one at all? He considered then
that he might just have to wait for her back to be turned and then make a
snatch for her purse and run out, although, because he knew she knew he'd
been using again it was highly unlikely she'd have any money in there,
especially after tonight's episode in the kitchen.
He closed his eyes, trying to will his mother mentally to hurry up and get
a move on. Then finally, when his digital clock said 7:11, he heard her walking
down the hall. She rummaged around in her bedroom for a few minutes and then
he finally heard her shut the bathroom door. As soon as he heard the faucet
begin to run he hopped off his bed.
Nimbly he went into her bedroom and began opening drawers, looking in
corners and under folded clothes but not finding anything. He looked in the
closet, in the bureau, places he'd found money hidden in the past, but he
found nothing. Panicking he stood in the middle of the room, his mind racing,
desperately trying to decide what to do. The bathtub faucet had stopped
running. He decided to check her purse, just in case she had left money in it.
He looked in the kitchen and in the living room, where she usually left it,
but he didn't find it in either place. He stood still for a moment, and
suddenly an idea came to him and he hurried back up to his mother's bedroom.
Getting down on his knees next to the bed he reached underneath. He felt
around, not feeling anything, but then he reached more to the right and felt
the leather strap of her purse. He pulled it out and opened it and took out
her wallet. Inside were three twenties and three tens, and he took the three
twenties and put the wallet back. Then he hesitated, and reasoning that
because he'd already taken this much he might as well take the rest, he took
the wallet out again and took the rest of the bills. Then he put the purse
back underneath the bed and hurried out to his truck.
He drove fast, handling the truck adroitly, feeling anxious and nauseous. He
longed for the moment of the needle driving into him, piercing his skin, and
then the moment of pure bliss and warmth when the dope overtook him. Before
the tolls at the George Washington Bridge he encountered heavy traffic and he
cursed and lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, taking drags and
tapping his hand nervously against the steering wheel.
For a few moments traffic completely stopped moving, and looking behind
him in the rearview mirror he glanced at his reflection, and then seeing
traffic was still not moving took a closer look at himself. He was almost
completely bald on top, just a few stray wisps where a full head of hair used
to be. His eyes were watery and hungry looking with wrinkles underneath them,
his blotched skin sallow. Thirty seven years old, he thought.
Traffic began moving again and soon he reached the toll and leaned over
and paid the toll worker, a large black woman. The cars were moving slowly
and as he crossed the bridge he looked at the lights of the city on his right
and was overcome with the same longing, awestruck sense he always felt when
he saw them, but now, ruminating on his age, it became less poignant and more
mournful, calling to mind all the other times he'd seen them while driving on
the bridge, always on his way to score dope, as far back as nineteen years
ago when he was young and 18 and in high school and dope was just something
he did because it was fun to do, not because he wanted to get addicted to it.
He'd tried quitting. God knows he'd tried. He'd been to more N.A. meetings
than he could remember, had once been forced by a judge to attend an outpatient
program for six months, and had even, when his father was alive and they had
the money, gone away to an expensive detox center for two months when he was
in his mid twenties. But his clean periods would never last. He'd go a few
months, even a year, and then he'd start drinking and smoking weed, and then
wanting to feel something better he'd hang around people he knew had dope.
He'd snort a bag and then do it again the next weekend, and then he was
doing it every day and before he knew it his old sixty dollar a day habit was
back. That's where he was right now. He'd had this habit for the past couple
of months, after seven months of not touching the stuff, and now he was right
back to where he was when he was 18 and had his first habit, only now he was
thirty seven and bald and feeling much older than he actually was and working
a shit job at a gas station and ripping off his mother while she took a bath
so he could support his habit.
The problem, he'd always told himself, went further than dope, though.
Since he was a small child he'd always felt like he was under a cloud of
malaise. He'd been disenchanted and frustrated for as long as he could think
back to. It seemed like everyone else knew what to do, what decisions to make,
to achieve happiness and success, and it was like he was in another place,
removed from them, where he could only watch them but not participate. And
when he did get near them, he'd get nervous, as if being in the proximity to
this much happiness and prosperity was too much for him, that he'd burst
from all the positive energy, and he'd go back to his place far off and
removed from them, knowing or at least thinking that was where he belonged,
and that he might as well make it as comfortable and bearable as possible and
the best answer he knew to that was drugs. So he shot dope and got high and
looked off into the distance at all the things he yearned for, things he
thought he had no right to and could never get by being the person he was,
and in all of this, as pathetic as it was, there was a certain melancholy
romance to it when he was high. But when he was sick it was a living hell.
After he crossed the bridge he followed the signs for the Cross Bronx, the
road badly paved and bumpy, and then got off at Jerome Avenue.
He found a spot near the street where his guys were, and getting out of
his car and walking on the sidewalk a nervous feeling spread throughout him,
which he always got before scoring from fear of getting busted. He spotted
his guys where they hung out by a deli, and, his hands in his pockets,
approached them.
He made eye contact with and nodded to Carlos, a young Spanish guy, and
Carlos nodded back and began walking with him.
"How much you need, bro?"
"Eight," Gary said.
They walked down the sidewalk, Carlos trying to be casual and inconspicuous
as he took his dope from one of the hiding places in his jacket. "Got the
money?" he said, his hand bumping against Gary's.
Gary passed the money to him and then Carlos handed the tiny wax bags
wrapped up in plastic into his palm. It was like touching gold.
Carlos counted the money and quickly put it away. He crossed the street and
began walking back up the block towards the deli. Gary turned down the next
side street, not wanting to take the same way back to his car as he had come.
The neighborhood was bad but he wasn't worried about getting mugged. All
of his fear was consumed in his worry of getting busted, of being denied his
chance to shoot up. He walked quickly, past the apartment buildings, some
with black youths sitting on the front steps, and past the corner grocery
store, Spanish music playing on a radio in front of it, and then crossed the
street and got into his car.
He drove up a few blocks to where there were stores and a bank and fast
food restaurants, the streets filled with people, all black and Spanish, and
feeling very sick and not wanting to look for a spot he parked in front of a
fire hydrant. He hurried up the sidewalk and went into the Burger King.
Discreetly, the only white person in the whole place, he walked quickly to
the bathroom on the left, which to his relief was not occupied, and went
inside and locked the door.
He'd accidentally stumbled upon this bathroom one night after scoring,
this junkie's oasis, the only bathroom he knew of in the Bronx where you
could just walk right into and use.
He took his works, wrapped in a dirty paper towel, out of his pocket and
poured some water from the sink into a bottle cap and extracted the water with
his syringe. Shutting the toilet lid, he placed his spoon on it and then with
his teeth tore open the plastic wrappers of two of the tiny bags and then
unfolded the wax bags and poured the contents of them, a light brown powder,
into the spoon. Folding the bags back up, saving the residue to combine with
another hit later, he carefully squirted the water in the syringe into the
spoon, creating a sugary brown liquid, and then picked up the spoon and
heated it with his lighter. Soon it began to bubble and the thick pungent
aroma of the dope cooking wafted up to his nostrils, a sickly nauseating
scent which was right then the greatest smell in the world to him. He placed
the spoon carefully on the toilet lid, dropped a small piece of cotton into
the liquid, and then slowly extracted the brown liquid. The air thick with
the smell of cooked dope he pulled his pants down squeezed his thigh, the
skin yellow and light green from all the other hits. The needle was dull from
overuse, and he had to push it hard, but it went in, and still holding the
flab of his thigh he injected the dope. After a moment, he extracted the
needle and then quickly put his forefinger over the point of injection and
held it there for ten seconds. Then, pulling his pants up, wrapping up
his works in the dirty piece of paper towel, he put everything into pockets
and walked out of the bathroom.
When he reached his truck he began to feel the dope kick in, a rejuvenating
and euphoric feeling that washed away every pain from his body. He started his
car and lit a cigarette, feeling normal, feeling wonderful.
He hit a couple of red lights and some traffic before he was able to get
back to the exit, but he didn't mind now, smoking his cigarette, tapping his
hand to the beat of the song playing on the radio.
When he got onto the Cross Bronx and began picking up speed wind crashed
into the truck and he rolled up the window. As he crossed the George Washington
Bridge a vague feeling of apprehension came over him, thinking of his mother
and having to come home to her, dreading the situation. He looked at the clock
on the dashboard. 8:32. He knew she was watching one of those dramas she liked.
At nine o'clock Law and Order would come on, a show they'd watched many times
together over the years. He sighed. He'd pay her back the money. That was
certain. He'd quit this stuff once and for all. Maybe he'd even start the next
day. Quit his job and spend a week home getting it out of his system. He
thought he could do it. Anything was possible.
The city disappeared behind him and then he was no longer on the bridge
and was heading toward the exit for Route 4, a sad song that had been around
since his youth playing on the radio.
For a moment after he pulled into his driveway and stopped his car behind
the gray Mercury he sat there, not wanting to go in, wishing he was someone
else and that this wasn't his life, but in the back of his mind was the
knowledge that he had another six bags left, and this made things easier.
He got out of his truck and walked up the path towards the front door,
opening it slowly and cautiously, like a burglar.
His mother was sitting in her chair in front of the TV like he expected,
and in front of her on coffee table was her purse, sitting there accusingly.
He took a deep breath and walked over and sat down on the couch. The clock on
the old VCR said five minutes to nine.
"Mom," he said, looking at her.
She didn't look at him or say anything. On the TV the credits for the end
of the eight o'clock show began playing.
"I'll pay you back the money. I promise."
She stared ahead at the screen.
He sighed and took a deep breath and then crossed one leg over the other.
"I'm going to quit. I promise. And seriously this time. I know I've made some
dumb mistakes, but this time I'm really going to do it. I was thinking the
other day, I'm thirty seven years old. Thirty seven. I have to make some
changes. I know I do. And I will."
The opening credits and theme song for Law and Order came on. Gary thought
of all the times he and his mother had watched this show, sometimes when he
was sober, more often when he was high and he'd told her he wasn't. He was
hoping she'd look at him so he'd know it was okay. He didn't care how much
she scolded and reproached him, even if she was crying as she did it, he'd
listen, just as long as it all ended with her implying, in some way, that
everything was okay. But still she didn't look at him.
He clasped his hands together. "Mom?" he said. "Did you hear what I said?"
She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and picked up the TV
control and turned off the TV. The room became silent. Wordlessly she stood
up.
He watched her, hoping to at least to make eye contact, but she walked by
without a glance.
He listened to her footsteps go up the stairs and then down the hall. Her
bedroom door closed.
He sat there by himself, thinking of all the years of this shit, almost
twenty of it, thirty seven years old now, his mother seventy three, and all
the stuff he'd put her through.
Walking past him like that, not saying anything, it had made him want to
kill himself.
He sat silently, listening to the faint noises of the house. He knew he
had to change. Soon it would be too late. The TV control sat on the armrest
next to one of her crossword puzzle books and he was overcome with love for
his mother, and wondered how many more TV shows she'd get to watch, how many
more movies, before she was gone.
He had to change. He knew it. He considered flushing the six bags down the
toilet but this thought was instantly replaced by the idea that he could wait
until tomorrow to start, what the hell difference did one more day make. The
point was to start fresh and he couldn't do that with those six bags lying
around. He just had to do them, finish them up, and then he'd quit for good.
Maybe he'd do another bag now.
He got up and headed to the bathroom. He'd change. He'd quit and he'd
learn to be happy, just like all those other people he'd been envious of and
bewildered by his entire life. He'd be a new person. He knew he would. There
was time, but he had to act soon, and plodding up the stairs and going into
the bathroom and taking his works out, he was encouraged and relieved by the
knowledge that tomorrow was, after all, another day.
navkirat sodhi
carousel
~~~~~~~~
so inspired
unaffected
by the way
the tune moves
slave to the beauty
of movement
the snake dances
untitled
~~~~~~~~
distribute
your stillness so
those who move
may find some rest
up till
~~~~~~~
a wasting synopsis
of after life
begins with the last
chapter of being
the rest bust strokes
of empty lines
reigning over
the frame of drawing
untitled
~~~~~~~~
where do you
keep your words
when i look at you
untitled
~~~~~~~~
i want to know not
what you know
i want to know you
move
~~~~
in my in
creep
melt all thy
before
let's regret together
arrival
revel with me in
the going
untitled
~~~~~~~~
while he
scavenges
let's watch
the vultures dance
it
~~
let me
be perfume
let me
evaporate
Peycho Kanev
Hangman
~~~~~~~
I can't see anything but wasted faces,
broken bodies, tired souls and as I walk
in the morning to my job
the streets seem full of ghosts.
oh these factories sucking slowly our lives
away and all those guillotine-jobs killing our
precious time.
I am ready to start my live all over again but
on what price?
who's going to fight for me this time?
I've lost all my battles against the existence
against all the factory owners
against all odds.
and later in my room
I turn on the TV and they show me how to become
A millionaire,
easy.
I turn it off
and lay in the bed and I know
that all our heroes have been wrong:
the dark is empty.
love letter
~~~~~~~~~~~
my life is a piece of paper on the floor
my life is clock without hands
my life is a broken fridge
my life is something that crawls away
into the night
my life is an empty bottle of wine
my life is a rat poison in the corner
my life is a love within a jail cell
my life is life without life
but those precious things that I find
in the night
this little wonders of itself
that is worth living for me-
this lovely quiet music
those beautiful legs under the sheets
those tasty apples on the kitchen table
and she said Isn't life beautiful?
and I said No
my life is my life
and it is
your life
darling
wait and you'll
see.
one laugh and one woman and one red dog which is
not here at all
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I walk in these narrow streets.
I walk in these narrow streets
in Moscow with Natasha and I don't feel
good at all.
I mean not because of this place or because of
her company,
just the laugher has ran away
from me.
on one corner I see a blue water booth
with the Jewish star in front of it
and there is a sigh:
"If you can live without my mineral water,
please,
bye it, so I can live."
I start to laugh
and Natasha seems to me more beautiful.
I'm telling her that.
something
~~~~~~~~~
oh yes, I like them raw and fresh and
ready for anything
but they always come undone and wicked and
lowdown _
but once
I met this girl
and she was looking like tree in a thunderstorm
this body
these legs
and those lips
she was a miracle she was like a fairy tale
that never happens to guys like me
but this time only this time_
and she said It can't happen, you know,
I'm a Jewish
and I said it didn't matter to me
but you are not Jewish baby, she said
I'm hardly anything I said
we made love couple of times and that
was almost everything
now she's gone
her name was Sara
now I'm alone in my room
the darkness is everywhere
like a little crawling creature
and Mahler is in the stereo
and the wine is in my
hand
my little Sara
I think that this universe
was created by SOMETHING
that no longer wants to be part of
us
if you accept it
and I will accept it
and then we can go
on.
heart in barb wire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sometimes the smoke is a painter
I am watching how it curves from
my hand and draws you
there's no obstacles for it and whole
room is a studio,
it paints you naked in the bed
it paints you with little drops of me on your
lips
it paints you whispering in my feet
your heart is in barb wire
you have to change it
we have to change it
let's change everything here-
the wall-papers
the bed
the table
the rug
the glasses
everything that you touch,
the lock
ah, this god damned lock.
Michael E. Barrett
The Naked Ape
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lonely in a crowded room,
eyes crawl over flesh like spiders;
this is not my home.
I clothe myself in layers.
I try to hide beneath my skin,
my every movement with intent
to not disclose my secret.
When I stand, I stand erect.
I always walk upon two feet.
I speak with diverse syllables.
I never grunt or groan.
You'll never see me drunken.
You'll never see me sip cheap wine.
Those looking for a barroom brawl
will find that I have no appeal.
I never curse my enemies.
There are no laws against my ways
and everyone will say of me,
"There is an upright man."
And nothing that I say,
and nothing that I do,
will be found to be with flaw,
nothing lacking innocence.
Not one man will find insult
in one word or in one deed,
nor woman find repulsive
the sight of me from either side.
Nothing is offensive;
not one thing except the whole.
Of dignity I have no lack,
of purpose no privation,
but the friend of Mary Jane
sitting in the corner
is riding in the belly of
a large submarine sandwich
and waving through the po rtal glass
at birds that swim beneath the waves
and speak to him of fish that fly.
The half dressed woman by his side
has her life tattooed on her skin,
and written on her forehead is
the story of her reckless ways,
but shows no signs of boredom.
The man who's pouring beverages
has listened to a thousand tales
and has the wisdom of a sage
yet lives his life as nothing but
a gigolo in Paris,
yet I have never been there.
The lowbrowed man who just walked in
is driven by his urges:
hunger,
thirst,
his baser drives;
he has not studied latin.
But in the center of a room
where lights are dimmed less for effect
than for the love of blindness,
you'll find me any night you look
and hear the whispers in the dark
of creatures who are of that breed
that mock the unfamiliar.
And yet they're no doubt wondering
what it means to be like me,
how it feels to wear my skin,
even as I'm pondering
the freedom of the naked ape.
her words float
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
her words float on my sea of troubles
`abba dadda, abba dadda'
bouncing playfully over waves
cruel and vicious waves
her words float
like styrofoam letters
`abba dadda, abba dadda'
purple and yellow styrofoam letters
red green and blue
in crayola colours
her words float
like alphabet noodles
` abba dadda, abba dadda'
stirred in this cyclone
`abba dadda'
stirred with a silver spoon
her words float
like a plasticine rainbow
`abba dadda, abba dadda'
a plasticine rainbow
`abba dadda'
floating as dark skies part
her words float
like twelve apostles
`abba dadda, abba dadda'
floating like the twelve disciples
after the seas were stilled
her words float
`abba dadda'
bouncing over playful waves
`splish splash, splish splash'
`abba dadda'
with crystal beads of water
sparkling on their surface
her words float
`eloi abba dadda'
floating endlessly
horizon to horizon
one perfect endless thought
Like the Back of My Hand
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know you like the back of my hand,
too well,
unnoticed while I wash and shave,
comb and brush,
eat and drink,
drive and crash.
Nothing shouts as loud as blood;
my scars resonate and echo
even after seven years.
I don't miss the peace of silence;
there's a concert in my bedroom
while I try to sleep at night,
sweet and sour, honest hauntings.
I know you like the back of my hand,
quite well,
as from a book:
blue lines are veins
beneath the epidermis,
metacarpal bones are
attached to the phalanges.
Everything can be explained,
torn apart into pieces,
separated from the whole,
understood much better
under a microscope.
We know that of which we speak.
We speak of that which we see.
We see all there is to know.
We know all there is to see,
until all we see is shattered
by refinement of the lens.
I know you like the back of my hand,
not at all.
The juice that fed my fragile flesh
shot out from where I held the wheel.
Then noticed, as departed love,
palm and fingers on the road
were foreign to me,
strangers.
The doctors mended you back on
with magic thread and needle,
but I know the horrid truth:
your flesh a color unli ke mine,
green and black, more honest now.
I could not control your movements
then, as if I ever did;
I never was responsible
for even one pulse through your veins.
It was you who came back to me,
bone by bone, cell by cell,
even as I slept.
I know you like the back of my hand,
with hunger filling up my soul.
I dream now of hills and valleys,
roads that run in all directions,
forests growing on my skin,
and through great cisterns in my flesh,
rivers flow,
flow ceaselessly.
As I write on the back
of an old, wrinkled letter,
the mighty cranes that clench my pen
drop it now
to gently caress
all the textures of the page.
Ryan Tansiel
Congenital Heart Defect
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wear my heart on my sleeve
But bought a trench-coat so it would fit
Floor length and tailored
Ignore the hole in my chest
I could button up, but
Weather permits I ignore destination
I wear my heart on my sleeve
Which causes certain circulatory snafus
Warm hands, cold knees. tear-duct-knuckles
Blinking ears and calves that floss after dinner
Stop looking at the excavated pit
I wear it that way
It's the only way
It, will, fit
June '08
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2008 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
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